The Watcher
by Ociwen
Summary: Draco's been practising too hard in his next attempt to beat Harry Potter at Quidditch. Snape has been secretly watching him. Kind of pre-slash, kind of not. A oneshot set in sixth year.


**Title:** The Watcher   
**Author name:** Ociwen  
**Author email:** an_fisher@hotmail.com  
**Category:** Drama   
**Rating:** R  
**Spoilers:** All 5 books  
**Summary:** Draco's been practising too hard in his next attempt to beat Harry Potter at Quidditch. Snape has been secretly watching him. Kind of pre-slash, kind of not. A oneshot set in sixth year:   
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author notes:** As always, thanks to Berne for the superb beta. I want to bear this woman's babies!

This was written as a challenge requested by Adelina. For you, hon!

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**The Watcher**

Draco is practicing Quidditch again. Even though he's missed dinner. The Gryffindor-Slytherin match is in two weeks' time and even though Draco knows he'll lose, like always, he doesn't want to be beaten up that badly. He wants to go down with some shred of his dignity intact.

He glares as he recalls the cracked rib Potter gave him last year post-game. "Bastard," he hisses as the Snitch flutters past his left ear, ten feet away.

Snape is watching the practice again. Even though Draco has got into the swing of things as the new team captain and even though the two new Chasers and new Keeper can finally catch the Quaffle.

He tells himself he's 'keeping an eye on things'.

Snape is not glaring, though, he's got a little smirk on his face and his dark eyes glitter. He sits on a ground bench, half obscured for it is well past sunset and the pitch is dark. Save for the unnatural light from the Lumos charms Madam Hooch places on the field for night practices.

This is the fifth time this week Draco has been holding a practice and it is only Friday night. The other members of the team, including Crabbe and Goyle, have been complaining that they're sick of it. They complain, stomp their feet and call Draco a wanker, an arse, a bloody Nazi.

Draco doesn't know what a 'bloody Nazi' is and Snape doesn't ever inform him. But then, he's never asked.

There are heavy purple bags under Draco's eyes and his hair is starting to get a little stringy and greasy, despite the constant showers he has. Snape misses the soft, feathery bounce it had before, but he merely nods and signs the form whenever Draco wants to book the pitch again.

Once, about a fortnight ago, Snape caught Draco sneaking back into the dungeons with a broom in hand at well past three in the morning.

"What in God's name were you doing out there at this hour?" Snape practically screamed when they reached his private chambers, near his office and the Slytherin dorms. He worries for the boy, but won't admit it aloud.

Draco blinked blearily and mumbled "Practicing."

Snape didn't get in too much more as Draco collapsed asleep, on his ottoman. He didn't have the heart to wake the boy to insist he return to his dorm, so he summoned a blanket from his bedroom and tucked him in with a heavy sigh.

Draco hasn't been eating much either and it's obvious to Snape when the boy's clothes start to fit his slim frame like Potter's own do. Part of Snape wants to force-feed fattening pastries down Draco's throat, but that wouldn't help. Draco's got tough courses to boot, with a workload that would terrify any Professor. No one but Snape knows that Draco wants to be an Auror. They discussed it last year during the private careers consultation. Draco wants to do something important with his life and make his father proud.

Thinking of Lucius Malfoy, sitting alone in a dank Azkaban cell, makes Snape certain that anything, any career would be more proud than that.

Draco doesn't speak of his father much anymore. Last year, right before the summer holidays, he told fanciful and half-serious tales to his cronies about how he planned to rescue, and then avenge his father's incarceration. But with the passing of the summer months, a fatalistic realism overcame the boy and he keeps his mouth firmly closed now.

Except around Potter. Because Potter always seems to bring out the worst in Slytherins. Gryffindors always do. The only things Draco says around Potter is "Bastard" and "Fucking sod". Snape keeps his mouth firmly closed whenever he hears this because Draco needs to vent his problems somewhere. So long as Draco can vent, he should be safe from a future as a Death Eater.

And Snape doesn't want anymore Death Eaters to come from Slytherin house than already have. There haven't been that many new recruits of late, but a horrible reputation doesn't need to be fuelled further.

Draco is a smart boy in his lessons, not over-the-top like Granger. He is clever enough to attain marks to apply to Auror school. He keeps his wits about him and writes effortless essays. He is good at Astronomy, can pot plants well and brews potions with the ease of a seasoned adult.

And yet for all his intelligence, Draco's grades are beginning to slip. Now he is forgoing Charms to work on his Wronski Feint, neglecting an essay or three in Transfiguration to explain the Porskoff Ploy to the Chasers nightly, skiving Herbology diagrams for Quidditch attack strategies. Snape notices this when Draco's potions essays (the only homework he does anymore) are handed in unfinished and when he adds Salamander Legs instead of Newt's Arms and his Pick Me Up Draught turns acid green.

Snape would have pulled Draco aside after class to have a word about his performance, but Draco had already left for the pitch.

He is watching Draco practice again. He tries as often as he can, but third year essays on mugwort and its healing (and hallucinogenic!) uses take up much of Snape's free time to mark. It is half past eleven now, a Friday night, and the other team members are getting very tired. From his unnoticed position in the stands Snape can hear them shouting at Draco in the air. He can't make out all the words they yell, but enough are heard:

"…tired! We practiced yesterday…"

"…are a fucking arsehole of a captain…"

"…test in Charms first thing Monday…"

Draco has finally noticed the shouts and his broomstick veers off towards the other players. Snape hears more loud shouting as the seven brooms all land quickly. Six players gang up against a lone figure. Snape cannot see what is happening fully on the pitch. The figures have moved and bright light high up, near his eye level, obscures his view. He cranes his neck to listen better.

It appears as though there will be a confrontation, especially as Draco yells back: "Do you want to win or not?"

There is a sickening slap heard on flesh.

Snape's heart drops in his chest and he flies down the stands as quickly as possible. There are too many stairs, too many railings, too much in his way. He cannot reach the field soon enough.

By the time Snape manages to reach the field, the team has left for the showers. All save one. Draco's head hangs low, hair falling limply over his worn face. His shoulders are slumped and shuddering as he shuffles towards the changing rooms himself. He is moving slowly, deliberately to be the last one to enter and be alone.

Snape knows that with such defeat and shame hanging over his head, it wouldn't be prudent to bother the boy. Draco seems alright. Hurt, angry, miserable, but unharmed. Snape stays to the shadows silently and follows swiftly, his scowl and watchful eye glued to his student.

Draco somehow slows himself down long enough so that as he reaches the Slytherin changing rooms and showers, the other players are exiting. They see him, shoulders hunched and tired and miserable and laugh.

"Nice eye, Malfoy!" one of the Chasers howls. "Makes you look like a Cyclops."

Crabbe and Goyle guffaw and the other players jeer. If it weren't so dark out- the Lumos charms having faded in the time it took Draco to stumble to the changing rooms- Snape would have been able to see pink spots of embarrassment appear on Draco's cheeks.

Defeated and dejected, Draco slips into the changing rooms. The other players can be heard laughing off in the distance as they return to the castle, taunts and threats and Crabbe's knuckle-cracking all combining. Snape is worried now. He catches a glimpse in the stream of light as Draco enters the changing rooms- Draco's eye is swollen purple and weeping fat tears down his left cheek. Snape holds back a gasp. He knows a spell that will slow the swelling, at least until the boy can get to Madam Pomfrey. But Draco is too proud to see the nurse, especially since his own friends gave him the black eye, judging from the size of the fist imprint. He will suffer in silence.

Snape, though, will not.

He gives Draco a generous five minutes to peel the body-moulded, sweat-drenched Quidditch robes and gear off and head off to the showers. Somewhere- perhaps the back of Snape's unconscious mind- something compels him to follow the boy in. It is an awkward and wrong situation to put himself in, but Snape is, and always will be, a Slytherin.

"Silencio," he whispers, as the door is known to creak.

Two rows of lockers are separated by a bench in between them. The far row of lockers separates Snape from the showers. He can hear the hiss of water running. Hot steam permeates the air in a blanket of warm, and concealing, fog. It is obvious Draco is showering- the moans and low groans of pain and aches make Snape wince. He wishes Draco would have at least cast a temporary healing charm on himself, but clearly he hasn't.

Until Draco shuts the water off and makes wet noises of feet on tile and terry on skin, Snape doesn't think anything will wrong of the situation. Then, the footsteps grow closer and he panics. Chances are, the boy is wandering about nearly nude. What if Draco were to catch him waiting? Why would a teacher be hanging about Quidditch changing rooms? Why is _he _there? What would Dumbledore say if he knew?

Snape can't think, so instead he slips into the nearest open locker and shuts the metal door. It clangs softly; Snape swears inwardly. A little silence would have been appreciated. It is a tight fit, squeezed into a Quidditch locker, but he is thin. The locker, though empty, reeks of musty old sweat and mildew. Snape has to breathe carefully through his mouth to avoid gagging. He can deal with stenchy herbs and animal parts, but not old sports sweat.

Through the small slats in the locker door Snape can see the shadows dancing in the oil-lamp light. He can hear the soft padding of Draco's feet round the corner as he enters the locker section. There is a faint crack of the wooden bench as Draco sits down gingerly on it. Snape tries not to imagine the scene and instead stares boldly through the grating. The boy is naked. He can see the pale, thin chest with the small, pink nipples. He can see the tiny line of blond hair trailing down the boy's belly. Snape doesn't know whether to rejoice or not that the boy is sitting and hunched and he can't see Draco's groin. The boy's legs are long and lean and covered in gold hair. Snape wonders what it would be like to touch them- is the hair soft and downy or coarse? He knows the boy believes himself to be alone. He knows he should have no right to be there, watching, a voyeur.

He also knows he wants to nonetheless.

Snape continues to peer carefully at Draco. Draco is standing now, towelling off a leg, and his back is now turned to Snape. His legs seem even longer when he stands, his arse is toned and flat, his back too thin for a teenage boy to be truly content. His shoulder blades protrude a little more than they should- they are fairy's wings and they move and slip beneath Draco's skin as though it were water. His hair is wet and dripping; it falls in a cascade of dark, wet gold down his neck and water droplets pool at the tips.

When Draco turns slightly, to dry off his other leg and he shows more of himself. Snape sucks in a sharp breath as he finally catches sight of the boy's cock, flaccid and hanging from a thatch of dark gold like the trail he saw before. The thought of what Draco's cock would look like filled with blood and hard and aroused flashes through Snape's mind. Would it be velvet to touch? Would it be pale, too, like the rest of him? He pants ever so briefly.

Draco tenses. The towel drops to the floor. Immediately he picks it up, holding it up to cover himself.

"Is there someone there?" Draco's vioce blurs the line between a hiss and a slur. One of his teammates must have had a bit of a crack at his jaw. Snape wants to get a better look to see what he suspects is true, but the reflection of light on pupil makes his eyes shine through the locker door, so he closes them.

"Is someone there?" Draco tries again, more insistent, higher pitched. There is a rustling sound. The boy must have reached for his wand.

"Aperium Totum!"

All of the locker doors fly open with a loud CLANG. Snape is exposed. He stiffens at the position he seems to be in, both his crotch and his body.

"Sir?" Draco squeaks, clutching his towel tighter. His whole body is flushed scarlet, especially his face. He looks feverish.

Snape steps out of the locker with as much dignity as he can muster. Which isn't a lot. He scowls and attempts to assume a nonchalant manner. He nods once.

"What- what are you doing here?" Draco looks around frantically. He seems worried, afraid, of ridicule, perhaps. Of reasons that an adult teacher would have for hiding in a Quidditch changing room, perhaps. Perhaps at being seen naked by said teacher.

Snape forces himself to focus on the wide, grey eyes instead of the chest that he wouldn't mind running a finger, a hand, a tongue over. "I believe," he says slowly, "you need to cut back on the amount of time you are practicing for your game." 

Draco was clearly expecting a different answer. His jaw drops ungainly. "You…you couldn't have waited to tell me later, Sir?"

An unfamiliar heat rises to Snape's cheeks. He wants to blame the warmth and the steam from the showers. He changes the subject: "You need to see Madam Pomfrey about that eye."

It is Draco's turn to flush- a deeper red than before. "It's nothing," he says, bringing a hand up to wipe an unconscious tear dribbling from the side. It is puffier than before his shower and much darker, deeper. Draco looks a bit like a raccoon, such a black bruise on such pale skin.

Snape steps closer to the boy, who holds his low-slung towel carefully. He lifts a long finger up and strokes his mouth. "But how," he asks, "will you be able to catch the Snitch with only one eye?" He means to be light and teasing, but he knows he has hit a nerve when Draco snaps his head to the side and closes his eyes.

Snape has a brief pang of guilt in his stomach for his student, but dismisses it. "Get dressed. I will escort you back to the school-"

"But I'm a prefect, I can-" Draco interrupts himself. Embarrassment and shame shimmer moistly in his good eye. The blackening one weeps regardless.

Snape simply raises an eyebrow and turns his back to allow the boy some modesty. There is a frantic, hurried rustling of robes tugged on. He clears his throat and turns back.

The boy looks dead tired and miserable and hurt. His breathing is shuddered and shallow. His lips are curled, but not in a sneer or smirk, in pain.

Regardless, Snape's voice hardens as other parts soften. "Come."

What an utterly inappropriate word to say.

Draco is quiet as they walk back towards the castle under the thick cloak of midnight. Hogwarts glows with faint candle and torchlight drifting down the sloping grounds from leaden windows. Draco's prized broom drags softly behind him, catching every bump and stone in the dirt path.

Not knowing what resources Lucius has left his son and wife behind, Snape mutters a "Wingardium Leviosa" with his wand so as not to damage the streamline tail of the broom.

The world is silent at night. Or at least Hogwarts is. It is too cold and late in the year for the chirping of bugs or birds; few animals venture outside of the Forbidden Forest and there is no pitter-patter of falling rain that night. Only the shuffling footsteps of Draco and the long, brisk strides of Snape. The air is crisp and clean with autumn chill. Snape inhales the scent of Draco that mingles deeply with it. The boy smells of expensive rose water soap and faint traces of sweat. Musky male pheromones and washed away, spicy cologne.

Snape takes a deeper sniff. It is intoxicating, delicious. He could get high on the pleasure derived from it alone!

"Sir?" Draco pauses mid-step, "Do- you _smell something?"_

Snape glares, even though Draco wouldn't be able to see it. "No! Hurry up!"

There is no one waiting at the castle doors to greet them and no one still roaming the castle hallways. It is eerily quiet this night. Too quiet. Peeves must be elsewhere in the castle. The torch lamps that hang by the oak rafters crackle and flare softly. They light they give is feeble and tinged with shadows. 

It is late. Snape knows Draco is tired and sore. The boy winces as he steps on his feet, his eyelids are growing heavy. The good one less so.

And yet the closer they come towards the Slytherin dorms, the slower Draco's pace becomes. He falls far behind Snape, hardly turning one corner as his teacher rounds the next. Draco's head hangs lower and lower, falling with gravity, and more of his hair hangs over his face. It is long enough to curl at the end where the last vestiges of water collect and dry up.

Even though the boy should have long been abed- and ideally in the infirmary for his eye- Snape stops. He stands impatiently in front of the Slytherin dorms entrance, which is closed, with a scowl. Draco arrives with a painful tardiness marring his step. He glances up and notices Snape's expression, but only sighs himself.

"Good night, Sir," he manages softly. He gives that week's password, "Digitalis".

The stone door hidden in the wall opens. As Draco takes a lethargic step forward, Snape catches his arm. In surprise, Draco's head whips around. His mouth opens, "Wha-" 

"Draco," Snape insists, "at least have a snack and some tea before bed."

Draco blinks in confusion. His brows crease. "Ye-es, Sir?" he says uncertainly.

Just stands there, not sure what to do. Snape smirks. Surely the boy cannot think that Snape wants his student either eating whatever snacks he has sent from home in his bed or traipsing down to the kitchens at that hour to find something. "In my rooms," he clarifies.

The boy's eyes droop further, but a small relieved smile ghosts across his lips. Dutifully, he trails behind Snape with an increased gait.

Draco has only ever been inside Snape's rooms a handful of times prior, the most recent being a fortnight previous. One other time was in his third year when the hippogriff had slashed his arm. After he was released from the hospital wing, Snape demanded to see his Quidditch team Seeker and inspect the damage. It had been evening at the time and Snape had retired for the night.

The sitting room, the first and only room of Snape's Draco has ever seen, is strangely warm and un-Snape-like. There is a large, tattered rust-coloured ottoman that Draco seats himself down on. It is comfortable and squishy, if the left side does sink down a bit too far. There is a chipped oak desk in the corner that is littered with scrolls and an opened book. The lamps in the room- three- are squat and round, glowing a cheerful yellow. There are several faded and stained landscape paintings on the walls. One has a farmer baling hay with a pitchfork. He is leaning on his pitchfork and snoozing for the night. There are no floating embryos in jars, no heads of failed students mounted to the walls, no stalactites dripping slime from the ceiling. There is a green yarn rug on the floor and a patched leather footrest.

It feels homey to Draco, it a tattered and cheap way.

From one of two doors on the wall opposite the doorway in Snape emerges a minute later with a tacky blue Chinese teapot. Behind him float two cups and saucers and a cream pitcher and a sugar pot. He sets these down on the low table in front of Draco and pours.

"Cream or sugar?" Snape's lip curl up in his own version of good hospitality.

Draco doesn't want to explain that his mother always adds lots of cream to his tea to help him grow up 'big and strong'. The way he likes his tea, in all honesty. "Cream," he replies simply, looking away at the painted farmer.

Snape pours in lots of cream anyway. He knows these sorts of things.

Seating himself on a fraying lime armchair that saw its better days before even Snape was born, Snape watches Draco.

Draco doesn't seem to notice. He slumps tiredly into the ottoman, holding the teacup in two hands like he would a mug. His eye has stopped weeping, but it remains puffy and black and half-closed. Draco's usual composure slips further as his breathing starts to lengthen and his eyes droop more. He starts to yawn, and unable to stop it, he turns his head away so Snape doesn't see him. He continues to drink his tea slowly.

Snape is disappointed, but not surprised that Draco has not picked up on the sweet acridness that distinguishes the active ingredient in most sleeping potions. Common second year knowledge he should long have memorized. Snape keeps his mouth closed but he sips his own- unspiked- tea and watches the boy from over the cup rim.

A second yawn stretches Draco's mouth and he tips a little to the side with tiredness. The hold on his cup loosens momentarily and slips. With a jolt, Draco realizes this and he catches the cup; he sits up straight. He takes another sip and yawns again. He has nearly finished his tea.

Snape himself is growing weary as well. He has had a long day- the disastrous third year Gryffindors melting two cauldrons in the space of one lesson was no help. Then he spent five hours, nearly six more like, watching the Quidditch practice. He decides to speed things along. "It is getting late, Draco. Nearly one o'clock."

Draco's eyes are a watery grey and bleared with the need for rest. He blinks once. "Yessir…" He looks around for a clock on the walls to confirm what Snape has announced, but there isn't one. There is only a cracked cobalt hourglass on a side table, but that does not tell time.

Snape cannot suppress his smirk. "You will need to be returning to your dorm soon, will you not?" He doesn't want to push, but they both need a good sleep.

His question is rewarded with an absent nod. Then Draco tenses suddenly and sets the cup down roughly on its saucer. He looks up with widened and tired eyes. Or, eye. "Sir, I-" He can't bring himself to say whatever it is he wants to.

Snape sighs. He knows what might be coming. He both wants it to occur, wants to offer the suggestion, but does not want it. The boy cannot know this. Know more than he already may suspect. Snape sets down his own teacup and waits with anticipation. With dread.

"Sir, I can't go back to my dorm tonight," Draco whispers, his voice full of shame. He swallows a lump in his throat and stares blankly at the shaggy rug on the floor.

Snape nods slowly, but he doesn't seem to focus on the words, so much as the pink lips that mumble them. "And…why is that?" he asks thickly. He does not want to press the boy for answers, but he needs justification. And to see the slight movements his mouth makes. The little sighs. The gleam of white teeth. The occasional pokes of a red tongue. Snape also wants to hurt those who have hurt Draco, to shield the boy from more harm. He has already been through enough with his father.

Draco opens the pouty, pink mouth once, but fails to say anything. He shakes his head. "Crabbe and Goyle said that…they said…they said they'd give me another eye to match if I showed my face tonight."

Slytherins more often than not make idle threats, but Snape is strangely touched by those husky words. Not moved, but they stir something inside, besides arousal. He leans across the table that divides them and brings a gentle hand up to Draco's swollen eye. The boy flinches unnecessarily as Snape only pushes back a limp strand of once-silky blond hair. The touch is tender, almost like a lover's.

Snape closes his own eyes and exhales, calming himself before a possible storm. "Fine. Follow me, then." He nearly added 'The Sleeping Draught is about to take hold of you' but he doesn't betray the boy's trust.

Without bothering to clear away the tea pot and cups, Snape makes his way across the sitting room and opens the other far door. He holds it open politely and Draco enters Snape's bedroom with hesitation.

"Luminens!" Snape murmurs and the lamp beside a low bed suddenly glows a dim pink, lighting the room a shade

"Sir?" Draco looks at him, blinking and puzzled. He rubs his good eye with his fist- mindful of the black eye- and yawns.

"You can sleep here tonight," Snape says at last.

Draco's cheeks turn red again, little spots of colour on the apples. He glances down at his rumpled robes then back up to his teacher. "Should I…sleep in this?"

Snape mutters an "Accio" and an old greying nightshirt of his flies out of a lone wardrobe towards Draco, who barely has time to catch it. Draco just stands there, in the middle of the room, unsure of  what to do with the garment.

Snape holds back an urge to roll his eyes at the naivety of the boy. For the second time that night he turns his back to allow the boy to change in relative privacy. It doesn't even occur to him until after the boy starts to change that Snape could have offered to have him undress in the lavatory.

When he is done Snape sees just how ridiculous the nightshirt looks on his student. Draco seems even smaller as the nightshirt hangs off his frame even more than his robes of late. He looks like a scrawny, starving waif in thin grey cotton that hangs well past his knees.

"The bed is there," Snape says in a strained voice. He needs to leave the room before anything truly inappropriate can happen. Blood is pooling in his groin and starting to stiffen his cock, thinking of Draco Malfoy, alone in his bedroom, naked under a borrowed nightshirt. Almost a fantasy.

He turns to leave, first taking a blanket from atop his wardrobe. There is a stack- a faded blue blanket and a brown and white striped afghan. He takes them both. The air feels chilly in the dungeons and it will only get colder.

"You- you're not sleeping here?" Draco sputters, oblivious of the Sleeping Draught that should have left him as sleeping as the dead by now. Snape raises an eyebrow. The boy cannot know his natural charm and desire! Draco goes on, "I mean, I thought you were." Nervous, pale hands wring the nightshirt. There is a scratch on his right hand. Snape wonders if that is from a Snitch wing.

But Snape hardly even processed any further thoughts before he agrees. "Oh, very well." He at least attempts to sound grudging. He replaces the blankets where they came from on their high perch and pulls a second grey nightshirt from the wardrobe.

Snape undresses in the lavatory, a small room with ancient beige fixtures and an aluminium sink. The situation feels laughable- and it is, Snape chuckles in spite of himself. As he removes his trousers and socks, his breathing becomes laboured with more thoughts of _Draco is waiting in my bedroom and his legs shake at the imagery, at the reality. He prays his body behaves, that his erection subsides, as he emerges into the dim bedroom again. Luckily the lighting is poor, otherwise the lump at his loins would be even more visible._

Draco, a twin in grey cotton, hasn't moved from the spot. His feet are rooted firmly to the cold flagstone. His posture at least has drooped, along with his eyes, from the potion.

Snape nods wordlessly to the left side of the bed, the side nearest to the boy, for him to get in.

The bed is covered with a faded multi-coloured patchwork quilt that his mother made for him when he started teaching at Hogwarts, fifteen years before. His mother still holds out hope that someday a nice wife will share the quilt with Snape. Snape doesn't think so. He knows he's not the best looking individual around. And unlike his father, he's not a charming romantic. But then he's not a hardcore absinthe user either, so maybe there is hope after all.

For now, Draco is going to share his quilt.

Carefully, Snape gets into the other side of the bed and says the darkening spell. He is cautious not to move too close to his side, there is another body there. He stays as far to the edge as possible. He is nearly falling out of bed. In the dark Snape cannot see Draco, so Draco mustn't be able to see him- or his erection- either. Snape can hear the soft groans of the old mattress springs as Draco stretches his feet out. He can feel the heat radiating from the boy like a fire in midwinter. He can smell the musky, soapy, sweaty, spicy body next to him. It _is like a drug. Snape only grows increasingly uncomfortable and hard. He contemplates bringing a hand down to relieve himself once the boy is asleep._

Snape sighs. So much does he want to wrap that body up in his arms. So much does he want to kiss that pained and pointed face.

"Sir?" Draco mumbles with even more somnia-laden thickness.

"Yes?" Snape answers.

The sheets rustle and move and the mattress shifts and squeaks and groans. Then there is a hot body pressed up against Snape's own, chest to chest and hip to hip. Snape grips his mother's quilt so as not to fall out of bed he is so far pushed over. Snape nearly moans from the sensation the boy causes in his body. The flutters, the shivers, the hardness.

An arm tentatively reaches out to touch Snape's shoulder. Snape suddenly finds himself wishing that he weren't so bony, that he weren't so old, that he weren't so ugly. He wants to tell Draco to stop, that it is wrong, but his mouth has dried up and his tongue grown fur instantly.

"I wanted to say…thank you, for watching out for me," Draco says with difficulty. The potion, no doubt.

A pair of soft, dry lips brush against Snape's forehead. A brief touch, hardly more than a naïve, innocent kiss, and yet so much more. If pictures say a thousand, caresses say millions.

"Thank you, Sir," Draco mutters again as he lays his head against Snape's chest, finally succumbing to the rest long denied him. "Thank you…"


End file.
